Bad Days
by Call me Red
Summary: Even superheroes have bad days. Of course, when they have them, they're SOO much worse. Not some cute little 'day in the life' type thing. I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this.
1. That Can't Be A Good Sign...

  
  
  
Disclaimer: If I agree they're not mine, do I get a cookie?   
  
  
  
  
Bad Days  
  
  
  
She'd had bad days before. Days when you sat up in bed with half your hair plastered to one side of your face and determined to stay that way. You run out of shampoo as soon as you go to use it. Someone else eats your last Eggo chocolate chip waffle (no one else even liked them!). And you trip at least twice before you even leave your room.   
  
Yep. Today seemed to be a good contender for worst day ever. So far, she'd met all the above requirements, plus a few extras (including an extra painful session in the Danger Room), and the entire afternoon still stretched out in front of her.   
  
She needed a smoke. And she'd never smoked in her life (well...maybe once, twice...).   
  
And to top it all off, the only mail that came into the mansion that day with her name on it was either a catalogue she swore she had her name removed from and a letter from her mother (try picking the lesser of two evils there).   
  
"Damn it all!" She cried as she passed through the common room.   
  
"Jean, could you possibly find in you to remain relatively quiet?" Hank muttered from the couch. "I'm trying, in vain mostly, to get some rest." He turned back on his side, some rather harsh comments filtering through his mind concerning the rude habits of certain residents in the house.   
  
So she ignored that, and went to find Scott. If he could possibly make her day any worse, she may as well get it over with. She found him in the garage, tinkering with his cycle.   
  
"Hello darling," she cooed. "How are you?"   
  
"What? Oh, fine." He took a distinct lack of interest in her at the moment. With a sigh, she leaned on a nearby counter.   
  
"No, Jean, don't!" She jumped right back up. "Oh, you ruined it!"   
  
She must have looked mortified. "What? What did I do?"   
  
"Nothing, just...go find someone else to..." He searched for a more delicate term than the one he had planned to use. "Someone else to keep company. I'm busy." He shooed her on her way.   
  
What's his problem, Jean thought to herself in a nasty little tone. Oh well, looked like she'd have to find someone else to talk to. Maybe she'd run into town to buy herself a present. It would certainly improve her mood.   
  
In the garden she found Ororo, sitting stiff as marble in a cross-legged position. Instinctively she sensed someone nearing, so she tried her best to seem completely spaced out and unavailable. To no avail.   
  
"Hey, Ro," she smiled sweetly. "You look peaceful."   
  
"I was," she could swear left the woman's lips, though her eyes never opened and her concentration never seemed to waiver.   
  
"So you...sit here often?" This was proving to be her most successful conversation of the day.   
  
After a stifled silence, Ororo replied. "Jean, if you would be so kind as to leave me in quiet while I try to collect my thoughts, it would be forever appreciated." She even opened her eyes for this one.   
  
"Oh, sure, no problem," she answered meekly.   
  
Jean telekinetically flung open the garden gate. This was getting ridiculous.   
  
Her ears peaked when she heard laughter on the other side of the house. Finally, some happy people! She quickened her pace until she was racing to join them.   
  
And bumped headfirst into a jumping Marie.   
  
"Geez, Red, watch where you're goin', huh?" Logan seemed genuinely and completely pissed off. "When'd you get so clumsy?"   
  
"My gosh, Marie, I'm so sorry," Jean said immediately, hoisting the girl and obliging to dust a little dirt on her knees. "I didn't know..."  
  
"I'm fine," Marie replied, with an effort to seem unfazed but letting a hint of anger show through.   
  
"Now we gotta start all over again. Mon Dieu, thanks a lot." Remy sneered and turned away. "At least pass over de ball, non?" Sheepishly Jean scooped up the orange basketball and tossed it to Logan, who caught it with a perpetual frown. No one bothered to thank her. She didn't dare "offer" to join them; she'd rather risk another bout with Apocalypse.   
  
Stuffing her hands in her pockets and cursing her bad hair day, Jean figured her presence, just for today, would be better served elsewhere. Why bother to seek out Charles, currently the only resident not thinking how annoying she was managing to be today.   
  
She grabbed her coat off the rack quickly, knocking over the stand in the process. The familiar clink of coins falling to the ground accompanied the dull thud of the coats.   
  
Bobby immediately appeared on the scene. "Aw, man! My arcade money! Jean, why did you have to..."  
  
But by this time Jean had already hastened out the door.   
  
  
  
  
"I'm famished." Bobby sat himself down at the table, waiting for food to be put down. "What's to eat?"   
  
Marie giggled and began a commentary. "Well, Mr. Drake, it seems we have a interesting selection of green, red ...blue, interestingly enough." She wrinkled her nose. "Is chicken supposed to have that film over it?"   
  
"Don't matter as long as it's food," Logan piped up, sticking his fork in a generous piece, taking a bite, then slowly swallowing. "Second thought...can I take that back?"   
  
"I'd like to see him cook anything," Ororo muttered with a touch of resentment under her breath. Remy seemed to nod in agreement, happy that his insight had told him to heat up some dinner from the fathoms of the freezer.  
  
"Is everyone here?" Bobby whined, eager to eat, no matter what the cost to his life and livelihood.   
  
"I think so," Marie chimed. "Dig in." He obeyed.  
  
"Hold on," Logan held up a hand and temporarily had the attention of the room. "Is Chuck eatin'?"   
  
Scott shrugged.   
  
They attacked the food.   
  
  
  
  
Her car didn't start for five minutes. When it finally decided to co-operate, she found herself caught in traffic for at least ten wasted minutes of her life. Salem Center, it seemed, was very busy after dark. Jean realized she didn't actually have a destination in mind, and she had (rather characteristally) stormed out without any consideration to what she'd do afterwards.   
  
She pulled into some nameless bar, intending to maybe collect her thoughts and get a bite to eat. It seemed like a good idea.   
  
However, the interior was not what she expected. The room was hazy from smoke and had the dull droning of a low quality radio lilting in the air. She glanced around and noticed there were few other patrons (a few old men at the rear, a somlemn looking middle age couple), and one lonley looking barkeep. With a grimace, Jean deduced this place didn't offer much more than peanuts, and maybe olives, to eat.   
  
Something stopped her from spinning on her hell, however, and returning to her warm, clean (albeit a little hostile at the moment) home. She sgokced herself: was she actually considering indulging in a drink, at this place?   
  
Well, she reasoned, why not? One little drink never hurt anybody. And it was about time she loosened up a little. Even she was allowed to disobey the rules (yes, there was an actual rule-one about abstaining from alcohol during the week-though no one paid much attention to it).  
  
She daintily perched herself on a well-worn stool and quickly became aware of a new problem. Certainly, he couldn't order a Cosmopolitan or a dry martini in a place like this. And she got a paticular feeling she'd be run out of the door if she inquired about a wine list.  
  
But as she placed one arm on the disgusting unkempt counter, she recognized a brand of beer Logan kept in the fridge at home.   
  
"I'll have one of those," she told the bartender (who gave her the oddest look- some people had no manners) and quickly handed over her request.   
  
Jean almost gagged as she took her first sip. No wonder Logan is always so angry all the time, she thought to herself as she regained what little composure she could and forced down another brave gulp.   
  
She was quite content in her steaming misery when the door behind her tinkled rather ominously. Sure enough, two burly looking idiots soon seated themselves two chairs over. Jean tried to ignore them, and enjoy her drink (neither of which looked to be a great possibility).  
  
"Hey baby," one of them slurred, led on by his crony. "Why don't cha come visit us? We're lonely something awful."   
  
"What a tragedy," she mused under her breath, her comment unfortunately unnoticed by the idiots. They took her apparent silence as an invitation. The bigger one slid over onto the barstool next to her.   
  
"And what's a pretty thing like you doin' by herself?" Ugh. He smelled like motor oil.   
  
"Yeah, in a joint like this?" The other one piped up.   
  
"Waiting for my husband. His name is Bruno. He won the national muscle building championship last year; maybe you've heard of him?" Her slightly silly response was courtesy of the beer. Potent stuff.   
  
Which gave her an idea; she signaled to the guy behind the counter for another one.   
  
"Aw, come on, baby, don't be like that." I'll bet his name is Snake, she thought to herself as she looked him in the eyes for the first time. "We're just lookin' to be friendly."   
  
The bartender placed the new beer in front of Jean, casting a disguised concern for the now sole female occupant of his bar.   
  
"Well, look somewhere else." Jean raised the bottle to her mouth once again, nearly missing by an inch.   
  
The guy spat some muttered curses and returned, dejected, to his buddy, who was laughing (and sounding like a cross between a weasel and a snake).   
  
After five more mintues, she decided that she'd had quite enough indulgances for the evening, and collected her handbag off the counter. Pulling what she hoped was a twenty out of her wallet, she gently placed in the barkeeper's hand.  
  
"For you, my good man," she annouced, withdrawing her hand slowly. "Keep the change."   
  
"Lady, you okay to drive? I can call you a taxi." He took her smile (simply a polite response to whatever it was he had said; she hadn't quite heard) as a yes, and quickly dodged in the back to make the call.   
  
Meanwhile, the cool outside air hit her like a hammer, and Jean grabbed her slightly spinning head, cursing to herself. She'd had two beers, was all. But of course, she'd never handled alcohol well. She was barely 110 pounds, for cryin' out loud.   
  
She was in no state to drive. Scott, she realized. She'd call Scott, he'd come and get her. Her knight in shining armour. No matter what kind of bad mood he was in, he'd never want her to risk it driving under a slight influence.   
  
Hmm, phone, phone, need to find a phone.   
  
The door to the bar opened and clanged shut behind her, unknown to her dulled hearing. When she did turn around, it took her a moment to recognize the threat.   
  
"Oh, you two again," she muttered, still looking for a phone. "Do either of you have a quarter by any chance?"   
  
They looked at her as if she'd just requested to see pink flamingo dancing the hula while wearing a orange tutu. She waved them off.   
  
Finally she spotted a rather beat up pay phone near the corner of the building. She stumbled over to it and picked up the phone, staring blankly at the numbers for a second before she remembered she had to hit the little zero.   
  
"Hey, honey, hang up the phone, huh?" The taller, apparently in charge idiot sauntered over and leaned his considerable weight onto the innocent telephone casing.   
  
"Yeah," his smaller, more annoying pal snickered, convincing Jean that much more of how he resembled a weasel.   
  
"If you could both just hang on a moment, I'm almost through," she said to them politely (if not a little slurred) after she had successfully given the operator the number to the mansion.   
  
"I don't think you understand, chicky," the tall, trying so hard to be menacing fella leaning against her payphone growled. "Hang up the phone. Don't get nobody involved in our business."   
  
"No, you see, I'm just calling my ride," Jean replied innocently as the connection as completing.   
  
"We'll give ya a ride!" the snivelling one behind her called out. God, he was so annoying.   
  
"That's not necessary," she declined sweetly, quietly becoming more panicked. Someone pick up...please...  
  
The tall one grabbed the phone out of her hand and ripped the cord out of the reciver. Jean swallowed slowly, her mind numbly processing the events unfolding.   
  
"Bad connection," the guy muttered as he calmly replaced it on the hook. "Comin' with us?"   
  
She'd have to chance it, she realized. Damn it, she didn't want to drive drunk. But her car was looking much better than out here.   
  
"No, boys, you can go on your way, I've got my own car." She pushed past the tall one and headed to her safe car.   
  
Weasel ducked in front of her, somehow, and grabbed her arm. "I don't think you heard my buddy correctly. You're comin' with us." He snickered again.   
  
"Get your hands off of me!" she shrieked. The poor fool didn't have the brains to let go.   
  
It took a moment of hazy concentration, but she managed to telekinetically hurl the guy across the small parking area onto the roof of his crappy little car. She'd forgotten how handy this stuff could be in real life.   
  
"You...you..." the tall one stammered. Jean just assumed she had suitably scared him speechless. However, he abruptly snatched her wrist and jerked her over to him. "You mutie bitch!" He yelled in her face, sending his spit everywhere. As much as she struggled, the motion only seemed to dull her senses more. He raised his arm as if to strike her, but slowly released the tension.   
  
The guy narrowed his eyes. "Look, much as I may want to smash your little face in right here..."   
  
"The bartender's seen your face. Not to mention my husband Bruno is expecting me home," she snatched her arm back, "Any minute now."   
  
"Scram." He turned to attend to his buddy, slowly making an attempt to move,   
  
She opened her mouth to snap a retort, but reconsidered. It was so much easier to be witty and clever on the battlefield, while surrounding by your big strong teammates. Jean thought it might be best to shut up and get out of there, before Big, Tall & Ugly rethought his decision. And save the comebacks for when she had Scott, or Logan or Ororo around for security.   
  
She turned and stumbled away, the alcohol in her blood really starting to get on her nerves.   
  
Stumbling over to her car door (having found, by some miracle, her keys in her coat pocket) she fumbled the key into the lock, not thinking to press the unlock button on her keychain, and flopped down into the driver's seat without her usual grace.   
  
Once she was on the road again, Jean let the fear she had hidden seep through, noticing how her hands trembled on the wheel. Had they been shaking like that, the whole time? She tried to force herself to relax a little, turning on the air conditioning and humming softly to herself. Not that it helped. Jean wondered if she should tell Scott. Or just thank her lucky stars.   
  
Sometimes she forgot how real the real world could get.   
  
  
  
  
Hank entered the dining room with a lazy smile and a stretch. "It seemed I've woken just in time." He lowered himself into a seat.   
  
"Did Sleeping Bluey have a nice sleep?" Bobby chomped loudly, apparently the only one amused by his (for lack of a better word) pun.   
  
"Why yes, thank you, Robert. And it was the oddest thing...the phone woke me, actually. Of course, they hung up after rousing me from slumber. What are we having?"  
  
"Better hurry, Hank. Bobby seems to have forgotten to eat the past week," Scott mused, yawning. Bobby cast a dirty look at Scott for limiting his ingestion options. There was a small crowd that remained around the table, chatting idly, or simply resting.   
  
"Has anyone seen Jean? I feel terrible," Hank spoke up loud enough to catch the attention of a few ears in the room. "But this afternoon, I was rather short with her. I haven't the chance to apologize."   
  
"Yeah, where is Red?"   
  
"Probably curling her hair for her grand entrance," Marie oozed under her breath. She noticed she had brought attention to herself with the comment. "I mean, nothing." She smiled innocently.   
  
"Well, she left here in a hurry," Bobby offered, leaning back in his chair. "Didn't even apologize for spilling my money all over the floor."   
  
"Really??" Marie wrinkled her brow. "That's kinda mean."   
  
"Don't worry bout it, Bobby, she goes out on these little trips sometimes. I'm sure she didn't mean to upset you." Scott nodded and left, intent on fixing the fuel gauge before the night was out.   
  
"Speaking of money...anybody up for the arcade? My treat."  
  
"My, that's real nice of you, Bobby," Marie grinned as she and Remy stood in their respective seats.   
  
"Well, as long as you pay your own way, that is." He frowned at the looks he got. "What? I lost some of my money when it spilled. I've got to budget." With much commotion and noise, the room cleared cleared.  
  
With the exception of Hank and Logan, who was looking particularly brooding this evening.   
  
"Don't mind if I left, would ya, Hank? Gonna bunk it early tonight, I think."   
  
"Not at all, my friend. In fact, I'd suggest it. I am rather hungry tonight. Good night, Logan."   
  
"Okay then. Night."   
  
Hank sat quietly and poured over the day's paper, munching on his food occasionally. As the clock neared ten, he decided it might be time to call it a night. He cleaned away the table and made sure the porch light was left on, so his returning friends would not come home to a dark house.  
  
  
  
  
Two, three, four...great. Bobby had five bucks to his name. Aw, crap on a stick, and he promised to go to a movie later that night with Kitty! Maybe he could hit Hank for a couple coins; Hank was always a pal! (under reasonable circumstances, of course). There were many places he'd never venture when he needed cash; but Hank was neutral territory. And they'd been on excellent terms lately; Bobby assumed it had nothing to do with the generous offering of the last three Twinkies to a certain doctor. You see, when Bobby made allies, he made them right.   
  
Unfortunately, his friend had not emerged from is room yet. It was, after all, nearing noon. Nobody in this house got up before noon on a Saturday, unless they had to. The sun was at that perfect place in the sky where it found its way into every window crevice and warmed everything it touched.   
  
His searching of the couch for some loose change was interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone. Muttering some ample curses about the terrible timing of the phone, he replaced the cushion and shuffled over to the nearest phone (namely, the one in the hall).   
  
"Speak," he sighed into the receiver, picking up the notepad meant for messages and rifling through the yellow pages.   
  
"Er, hello. Is there a Scott Summers in the residence?" The stern voice on the other end droned.   
  
"Well, yeah, but he's not home. I think."   
  
"Could you check? It's urgent."   
  
Bobby wrinkled his nose, not wanting to go check (for all he knew the guy was in the next room. But let him answer his own calls!). "No, I'm sure he's not here," he lied. He poised a pen above his notepad and said in his best Professor imitation, "What is the call concerning?"   
  
"Well," the voice on the other hesitated. "He's listed as next of kin. Who is this?"   
  
"Wait a minute," Bobby dropped the notepad back where he'd found it. "Say that again?"   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Wake In Vain

  
  
  
Disclaimer: You know what's a great word? 'Purloined'. Great word, fantastic even...look it up.   
  
  
  
Author's Note: I would like to hereby state that no, I have ABSOLUTELY nothing against Jean Grey. I love and adore her. She is, hands down, my FAVOURITE character of all the X-Men.   
So why, you may ask, do I have her crashing into things and ending up in big trouble? Well, I answer, one simple reason.   
I don't believe in hero worship. I think its more appealing to find the delcious flaws in someone than to go on for three paragraphs about the beauty of their eyes.   
So anyone who may think I'm one of those terrible Red-bashers, take heed. I am not, and never will be.   
  
  
  
  
Bad Days Part Two  
Wake In Vain   
  
  
  
  
Doctor DeAngelo paused at the doorway of the hospital room. He stared back at the sole occupant of the room, his mind strangely blank as he registered the image she made.   
  
She was barely above a Jane Doe. The police at the site hadn't recovered any identification till earlier that morning, which was then put off until the afternoon sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. DeAngelo didn't like to tend to patients whose family he hadn't met, especially when the patient had been out cold since the night before.   
  
He allowed himself a moment of apathy for the woman lying in the standard hospital bed. She would have been very lovely, he decided, if her hair wasn't matted to her pillow, or perhaps even if she gained some of the color back to her face. The thought evaporated from his mind just as quickly as it had been born.   
  
She did however, DeAngelo admitted silently, look dangerously fragile, beneath the heavy medical machinery towering over her small frame like hulking giants, amidst the tangle of tubes threatening to bury her.   
  
The few interns that shuffled around her, pressing buttons, switching tubes...they too were trained to become impassive to the patients that found their way here. DeAngelo guessed from their spilt second pause that maybe they had noticed precisely what he had a moment ealier.   
  
Angelo's distant train of thought was interrupted by Colleen, a nurse on his floor. "Doctor, her family is here," the petite blond told him, habitually straightening her uniform. "They're at the front desk."   
  
DeAngelo murmured a distracted 'thank-you' and picked up the clipboard lying on the table just inside the door. With practiced ease, he slipped into his doctor face and ceased to be Reggie DeAngelo, father of three and coach of his youngest son's baseball team. He became Doctor Reginald DeAngelo, trained medical physician and this patient's doctor.   
  
He found the family, or what looked to be passing for family, with ease, since they stood out in these monotone corridors like red on black.   
  
DeAngelo noted the difference they had drawn between themselves and the rest of the hospital. They were huddled together, in a sense, as if they were afraid to branch out, lest they mesh with the other people in the corridor. They weren't many, really, five or six at the most. But there was a feeling that preceded them, that extended from them, that took up the corridor.   
  
DeAngelo cleared his throat and approached them.   
  
He despised this part of the job.   
  
"Hello, I'm Doctor DeAngelo." He held out a hand to the man who had walked out to greet him upon sight.   
  
"Scott Summers." He ran a hand through his hair. "How is she?"   
  
DeAngelo nodded. "Much better. She's been stabilized since we brought her in."   
  
"Stabilized?" The man repeated (what was his name again? Oh yes, Summers). "I see."   
  
"Mr. Summers, I assume you are...?" He glanced down at the sheets tacked to his clipboard.   
  
"Her husband, yes. Can I see her?"   
  
"Not right now. She's sleeping."   
  
A younger man appeared to Summer's right. "What happened?"   
  
DeAngelo pursed his lips and drew a deep breath. "If I could just talk to Mr. Summers a moment-"  
  
"Go ahead, doctor. It might be better if you told us all at once." Summers motioned for a stunning dark woman to stand behind him, and whispered something to the large man who walked up to stand opposite him.   
  
"Well," DeAngelo began, choosing his words very carefully. He took a spilt second to read the name off his sheets. "Jean was brought in here last night around nine forty, suffering from a few broken bones and some internal injuries. From what we gathered at the scene, she was involved in an accident with her car...no one else was hurt, don't worry."   
  
"Her car?" A new voice asked, coming from the black woman who'd moved next to Summers.  
  
"Yes, her car," DeAngelo nodded, not quite sure how to phrase the next few sentences. "It had crashed into a telephone pole."   
  
"Excuse me?" That was the younger one again, with the sandy blond hair. "Somebody drove her into a telephone pole?"   
  
"No, not exactly." DeAngelo shifted his weight. "We've got reason to believe she very well did it herself."   
  
"But that doesn't make any sense, Doctor..."   
  
DeAngelo took a deep breath. "We ran a few tests and at the time of the accident she had a blood alcohol level of-"   
  
"A what?" Summers was obviously being given a rather rude awakening.   
  
"Mr. Summers, if you'll just let me finish."  
  
"Could I please see her?"   
  
DeAngelo was about to tell him once again about her current condition, when the hall doors swung open to herald the arrival of two more of their clan.   
  
DeAngelo stifled a sigh; he was well aware it was turning out to be one of his more difficult days. And, so far, he realized ironically, the patient was far easier to treat than her family.   
  
For the moment the doctor, who was proving to be more of an annoyance and less of a help than Scott would have hoped, was forgotten as Marie and Remy caused a small parade of activity around them. They both looked slightly more upset than Scott would have placed them, and were also dripping wet. Great, looked like it now raining outside, to top everything off.   
  
"Oh Scott, where is she? What's wrong?" Marie blurted out immediately, her wet hair dripping all over the tiled floor.   
  
Scott ignored the question for the time being. "You didn't have any trouble getting the message?"   
  
"Well, we were halfway to Mississippi before it caught up to us, but oui," Remy reached for Marie's hand. "We got de message."   
  
Scott chose to wisely swallow the comment he wanted to make about the likelihood of that happening if he'd just carry a two way pager like everyone else.   
  
Scott turned back to the doctor, who was waiting patiently for his attention. "Her parents are on vacation somewhere in Italy, but I might be able to contact them by next week." He stiffened considerably. "If the need arises," he added, in a tone that hoped the need did not.   
  
The doctor only nodded solemnly and continued to tell Scott things. Things he failed to hear, because he was concentrated on the persistent chatter behind him.   
  
"Where's Logan?" he heard Bobby ask. "I thought you stopped by the mansion to get him."   
  
"We did!" Marie exclaimed, exasperated. Remy was busy telling something else entirely to Ororo. "But when I told him all we knew, he started yelling at us. He went all crazy before I even got the words outta mah mouth..."  
  
  
  
  
She sat patiently, without opening her eyes, to wait for the pain that was throbbing behind her eyes to slowly subside. Her wits were still taking leave of her. She was well versed in waking up with soul numbing headaches; she was, after all, a telepath, and had been for most of her life. With great effort she pried her eyes open, thinking of perhaps opening the curtains to what would hopefully be a sunny day.   
  
She instinctively held down the scream that had grown in her throat, since she was in a hospital, and for some reason she remembered that hospitals had those no noise signs posted outside. She did not, however, prevent her spine straightening from shock, and soon found herself in an alarming amount of pain.   
  
This is all a very bad dream, she told herself harshly. Pinch yourself, and you'll wake up at home, comfy in your Ralph Lauren sheets and you can go open the damn windows to let the damn sun in.   
  
However, Jean found it nearly impossible to move anything beneath her neck.   
  
Still a dream! she assured herself as she slowly eased herself back onto the hard lumpy pillows and shifted her head so it was relatively comfortable. She let out a deep sigh, causing in the process a painful spasm in what she guessed to be her right lung.   
  
She looked from the corners of her eyes at whatever wasn't directly in front of her. Gosh, for a dream, it was all so vivid. Including the pain that shot through her when she so much as blinked. The walls were an eggshell pink, from what she could tell, and she had obviously been given the worst possible bed in the place. There was a set of windows to her right, with dark blue curtains that didn't match the rest of the room (not that was probably a big concern or anything). The only door was in the corner of the left side of the room, next to a picture window with blinds that were only partially closed.   
  
Jean saw movement outside her window and settled her head against the rocky pillows once again. She shut her eyes just as the door opened, hoping that faking sleep would make the person go away.   
  
"Sit up, Jean, I know you're awake," said a deep, male voice. "I saw you stir not two minutes ago."   
  
Reluctantly, Jean opened her eyes. She watched as the man in the official doctor coat scribbled a few things onto his clipboard. She felt her face grow warm as she realized he had spoken to her as if she was a child. "I'm sorry, I'm just very tired."   
  
"Of course," he said, and Jean couldn't figure out if he was being sarcastic or amusingly tolerant. He looked at her from behind thick tortoise shell glasses and attempted a sad looking smile. "I'm Doctor DeAngelo. I attended to you last night."   
  
"I...I don't remember," Jean stammered eventually. "Have I met you before?"   
  
"I couldn't imagine where," he smiled, revealing a mouthful of pearly white teeth. "No, don't try to move." He paused and pressed a button on the beeping machine next to her bed.   
  
Jean looked away from her doctor and drifted down to his ID card, attached neatly to his pocket. It showed the same handsome black face that stood in front of her. Her gaze drifted to the rest of her bed, where her legs and arms lay seemingly useless.   
  
"Am I paralyzed?" She asked bluntly.  
  
Doctor DeAngelo, who had grown used to the silence, held back a tiny chuckle. "No, Ms. Grey, you are not paralyzed. And you can thank God for that."   
  
"Why can't I move my arm?" she continued, in the same bleak tone used for her earlier question.   
  
"Because. You've fractured your collarbone," he replied cautiously. "No, everything's fine, don't panic, don't move. It's a common symptom of a broken collarbone; that arm may be limp for a few more days."   
  
Her collarbone? How ever did she manage that? "Why am I here, Doctor Angelo?"   
  
DeAngelo tried to keep his voice casual, for her sake. "You were in an accident with your car." He stood tall by her bedside. "You don't remember?"   
  
"No," she replied absently, "I don't."   
  
"What DO you remember?"   
  
"I..." She tilted her chin toward the window as she searched her memory. "I spilled Bobby's money."  
  
"I see."   
  
Suddenly her eyes widened and she turned abruptly (well, as abruptly as one can manage in a cast) to the doctor. "What was I doing in a car crash?!?" she asked, horrified.   
  
He patted her hand reassuringly. "We're trying to find out, Ms. Grey."   
  
Jean saw this gesture as somewhat pitiful, and wished she had more liberal control of her hands. She finally managed to curl her fingers under, shooting pain up and both arms. She winced.   
  
The doctor broke contact, noticing her pain. "I'm afraid you've got a few more hours of staying as still as you can to look forward to."   
  
"Isn't there anything you can pump into that little plastic bag?" she moaned despairingly. "Or maybe some Children's Tylenol? I'm not choosy."   
  
"Not for another hour at least. You've had a very rough night." She opened her mouth to question that last statement, but he cast a warning glance at her. "You'll have to tough it out."   
  
DeAngelo briefly noticed how she managed to pull off a pout with a three inch gash on her forehead.  
  
She closed her eyes and thought for a moment while he did whatever it was doctors did with the plastic bag. Her knowledge of the medical practice didn't extend far beyond the odd ER episode. Jean noticed the plastic tube attached to her hand and would have grinned at the novelty if she had been brave enough to risk the pain a smile would cost her.   
  
"At least tell me the extent of my injuries," she said shortly, having already mentally weighed her options. "I should know what it is that's causing my head to-"  
  
"How IS your head?" the doctor inquired, leaning in to closely inspect and adjust the bandages taped to her forehead.   
  
Annoyed at the change of subject, Jean was tempted to lie. "Terrible. I can barely form coherent sentences without suffering a migraine."   
  
"Okay," the doctor replied slowly. "As for the rest of you, I've already told you about the collarbone. It's what is called a comminuted fracture, which means the bone has splintered where it was broken." He traced along Jean's left shoulder, which was overtly pointless, since she could barely move her head. "That's why your left hand is limp; you might even start to see swelling in a few hours."   
  
"Something to look forward to," Jean muttered darkly. "Anything else?"   
  
DeAngelo walked to the edge of her bed and lightly tapped her right foot. "This ankle has a sprain from when it wedged between the pedals, so that's a little swollen. That should be better in a few weeks, maybe a month. You've got a nasty bruise on your elbow there and..."   
  
"And?" Jean piped up as he seemed at a loss for words.   
  
"And," he pointed to a spot on his own forehead. "Your forehead hit off the steering wheel right here and suffered quite a blow. No, don't move. Don't even try to move for the next twenty four hours. There'll be plenty of time to obsess about the size of that bugger when you get out of here," he advised, allowing his mouth to lift into a smile as she saw the somewhat worried look on her face. "It should heal very well."   
  
That last sentence seemed to comfort her for a moment. But soon that was replaced by a look of annoyed displeasure. "Are you going to tell me how I ended up here?" She asked in a softer voice than he would have expected. "I really don't remember."   
  
"I think it would be best to wait on that, Ms. Grey," Doctor DeAngelo replied quickly, moving towards the door. "Do you think you're up to have visitors?"   
  
Jean's eyebrows raised, which, in her current state, was no easy feat. "Visitors? I have visitors?"   
  
DeAngelo nodded. "They've been out there for hours now. A small army." He tapped out a small rhythm on his trusty clipboard. "Shall I show them in?"   
  
"Is..."   
  
"Yes, your husband is out there. And gathering up half of Manhattan to wait at your bedside, might I add."   
  
Jean smiled, pleased the pain was beginning to fade. "My extended family, I assume." Realizing that the feeling was returning to her right arm, she raised it to half-heartedly feel her hair. "Do I look half as terrible as I feel?"   
  
"You look fine," was the best Doctor DeAngelo could come up with without telling a bald-faced lie. "But I can hold them off till tomorrow. After that, no promises."   
  
Jean succeeded at nodding once, not without great difficulty. "That would be just fine. I'm in no state to see anyone," she noticed his slight barely there smirk and continued, "...physical or otherwise."  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow morning then, if not sooner."   
  
"Thank you Doctor. Good afternoon."   
  
"Good night," he corrected quickly, as he closed the door behind him.   
  
The door clicked shut, and the room was void again. The silence in the room was only interrupted by the steady beeps on the heart monitor next to her. For the first time since she'd woken up, Jean slowly inched her head around with the finesse of a newborn to look at the clock placed on her bedside table.   
  
8:02pm, proclaimed the glowing red numbers flashing on the little clock. So much for pulling open the curtains to let in the sunlight.   
  
  
  
  
  
And On That Note: I hope you have a wonderful day.   
  



End file.
